


A Good Man

by cerebel



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, First Time, Genital Torture, M/M, Nipple Play, Sensory Deprivation, Wax
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 04:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cerebel/pseuds/cerebel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a slight AU in which Coulson and Steve interact a great deal before Avengers, Coulson helps Steve out. Just porn, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Good Man

**Author's Note:**

> Written for shipoftheseus, who requested Coulson/Steve, sensory deprivation.

“I’m not sure this --” Steve cuts himself off, swallows. The blindfold is soft against his eyelids, tied firm with some kind of knot that doesn’t form a lump at the back of Steve’s head. His last sight: Coulson -- _Phil_ , jacket shrugged off, tie loosened, as Steve stripped his uniform off piece by piece. 

“You can stop it at any time.” 

Coulson has a calm voice. Even when he’s nervous, his voice is calm. It’s the sort of thing that makes a good liar, and a soothing leader. Reminds Steve, distantly, of Peggy. 

Steve nods. Reminds himself of that, internally, over and over.

~*~

“It’s not about sex,” Coulson had said. “It’s about what you need.” 

Steve was used to little kids being fans of him. Little kids collecting the cards and the comics and cheering. Kids, kids don’t know any better. 

He recognized that Coulson had taken a risk, offering this. Even if it wasn’t like it used to be, fraternization still wasn’t a good idea. Especially from someone who thought he was a symbol, not a man. He’d volunteered to be a symbol, way back when, but this was a different world, and symbols meant different things. 

Steve shook his head. “The answer’s no,” he said, firmly.

But the next time he went after a guy taking potshots at American soldiers -- the next time he climbed a hillside and flung his shield at a sniper’s position -- the next time he found that the dread enemy was a teenager with dirty clothes, a _kid_ who called out for God and cried because he knew he was going to die --

Steve couldn’t hate American soldiers just trying to do their duty, and he couldn’t hate misguided children who try to defend their home. He couldn’t. 

Coulson patched him up on the plane back to Washington. They shuttled him back and forth a lot. Got so he never knew if he was coming or going, never knew when his body thought nighttime should be. 

Skilled fingers winding the bandage around his wrist, sealing it off, and then a hand settled on his shoulder. 

“You’re not just a symbol to me,” said Coulson, and slipped away. 

~*~

“The earplugs are going in now,” says Coulson. “Remember --” 

“-- you can still hear everything I say. I got it.” 

A little exhale from Coulson, and Steve can almost see the smile that should go with it. A finger brushes Steve’s cheek, turning his head to the side, and molded wax settles into Steve’s ears, one after another. 

Coulson’s touch vanishes, and Steve is awkward, exposed. He’s not even half-hard. He doesn’t know what he should be expecting, and doesn’t know if he even really wants it. Doesn’t know if he really wants _anything_ , besides Coulson’s reassuring hands, besides the spare signs that there are still people in this world with hearts that Steve can recognize. 

Then he feels a brush against his cheek. Lips, dry lips. Another, on his jaw. A pause, then Coulson’s lips press against his. 

Steve isn’t expecting it. _This isn’t about sex_ , that’s what Coulson had said, and Steve thinks that maybe Coulson meant _this isn’t about me_. 

The kiss deepens, very slow. There are fingertips guiding Steve, nudging him -- not forcing him, but ... well, Steve isn’t very good at this. He doesn’t mind the direction. He doesn’t mind this at all -- it makes his stomach feel tight and nervous, except not nervous at all but warm and wanting. Their lips part and connect, again and again, and each time Steve gives in more. Until he’s straining up, craving every moment of contact, breathless like he’s drowning. 

Something cool traces along Steve’s chest. Tongue? -- he thinks, but no, it _stays_ cool, chills, must have something like mint in it. He can feel the criss-cross of the pattern painted on him in little trails, but can’t make sense of it. One goes over his nipple, and Steve feels it furl tight in the apparent cold. Then something warm and wet -- oh, that feels good. The skin is cool but the touch is warm, and the combination of it makes Steve ache, ache for something he can’t describe. 

Something pinches tight around one nipple, then the other. Tight to the point of pain, overstimulation, but Steve knew there would be some pain in this. His endurance is high. But it makes him focus on his body, aware of his skin in a whole new way. Like usually Steve’s skin is a barrier between him and the world, and today it’s a doorway. It’s his only way to the world. 

Coulson’s hands nudge Steve’s legs apart. This is difficult. Too sexual, maybe, too intimate. But he does it, and he’s rewarded with something vibrating, pressed to the skin between his scrotum and his anus. It abruptly makes Steve feel like he’s on the edge of coming, like his body is getting ready to let loose, but that it can’t -- _can’t_ get quite that far. 

He’s making noises, he realizes. Feels the vibrations in his throat.

And then Coulson winds something around his testicles, over and over, like a small strap or a wide string. It pulls them tighter, until they’re restricted, strained, pulled from his body, taking climax that much further out of his reach. 

Cool slick over his cock, and then Coulson’s hand, pumping him, root to tip, mechanically steady and too slowly. Steve squirms. He pulls against the bonds, not with his full strength, not on purpose, but because he has the urge to _move_. “Phil,” he thinks he says, or maybe he begs, or just stammers _that, that’s good_. 

It doesn’t stop. Keeps going, going, until Steve is beyond words, caught on that teetering point before climax for too long. It forces its way out of him, tangled and tense -- and then he comes, long spurts, dragged out of him by the even movement of Coulson’s hand. It doesn’t let up, even when the strokes get just this edge of painful, until everything is wrung out of him, until he’s done. 

He sags back. 

He feels Coulson shift off the bed, and the man’s gone for a count of fifteen, until Steve feels a wet washcloth glide down his skin, clean the come that fell on his stomach. Incredibly, he feels safe. He doesn’t feel like he’s in danger of screwing someone over, of killing someone who shouldn’t be killed. He doesn’t feel as though the pressure of nations is on his shoulders, the hate of half the world. 

He breathes easy, in the silence and the dark.

The vibrator is removed. Steve loses track of time, as Coulson’s hands ease the tension out of his thighs, his calves. He forgets to count when Coulson leaves again, doesn’t startle when he returns. 

He’s not tired, really. Sated, maybe. 

But then the vibrator returns, slick and pressed against his anus. He goes tense, and Coulson pauses, stroking Steve’s thigh. He’ll stop. He’ll stop any time Steve asks him to. And he’s already gone so far beyond his comfort zone -- what’s one more step? 

He relaxes, slowly, and then the vibrator presses its way inside him. It’s a small, intrusive presence, not really pleasurable at all, and not really painful, not like whatever’s still pinching his nipples, not like the restraints on his sac. 

And then --

Steve isn’t really sure what to make of the sensation. It feels a little as though Coulson is moving the base of Steve’s cock, through his body. Using his ass to get to something else, something inside him, something that craves to be teased, pressed. He shifts, notes that his cock is hardening again. The tip is wetter, this time, even though Coulson cleaned it off. 

Coulson braces the vibrator somehow, and switches it on. Steve’s hips arch off of the bed, abruptly, and if he were given to profanity, no doubt he would have taken some deity’s name in vain right then. It multiplies the earlier sensation tenfold. 

“It’s okay,” he breathes, “it’s okay, it’s good.” 

A finger brushes over Steve’s lips. 

And then Coulson takes him in hand again. Steve expects something like what Coulson did before, but instead he cups Steve’s dick in his palm and drips something on it. 

He feels the drips, first, and then a flash of heat. It burns, it _burns_ \-- and slowly, the heat fades, and Steve finds himself straining against the bonds, panting. His throat feels like he cried out. 

Coulson’s fingers drag along Steve’s length, and then he feels a peculiar tugging sensation along the skin. 

Wax, he understands. It’s hot wax. Not hot enough to burn, just hot enough to feel like it will. 

Coulson finishes peeling the wax away, and Steve braces himself. 

The drips are just as hot this time, and he bites his lip, desperate sounds escaping from his throat. He’d’ve thought that this treatment would make him go soft, but the vibrations inside of him -- the way he’s held down, tied and spread out for Coulson, everywhere sensitive in his body exploited --

Peeled away again, and the skin is left sensitized and delicate. 

Steve loses count of how many times it repeats. Coulson never actually hurts him, just tortures him with the edge of pain until tears have soaked the blindfold. Steve is a mess, wrecked, sweaty and even more strung-out than he was before. 

His orgasm snaps through him with a force he hasn’t felt since the serum. 

The next thing he knows, the washcloth is back -- no, it’s something softer this time. It brushes over his dick, then, after the vibrator is removed, between his legs too. The strap is unwound from around his sac, and then the touch of the washcloth continues. His sweat is wiped away. Fingers brush his hair back from his forehead, and then the cool cloth stays there, a moment or two longer than anywhere else. 

By the time the earplugs come out, Steve feels completely boneless. 

The blindfold, next. Coulson has dimmed the lights so that it doesn’t hurt his eyes, to open them again. 

“You still with me?” asks Coulson. 

“Yeah.” Steve lifts Coulson’s hand in his, and kisses the back of it. Now, he’s exhausted. “What about --” He lifts himself, on his elbows. “What about you?” 

“Don’t worry about it,” says Coulson. 

Steve nods, closes his eyes. 

Some time later, he awakens. He doesn’t open his eyes; instead, he lingers in the memory of sleep. 

Coulson’s hand flattens on Steve’s arm. He speaks softly.

“Our wars are complicated, now,” he says. “Everything is complicated.” He knows Steve is awake, though Steve doesn’t know how. “The world is smaller and it’s bigger than ever before. And it’s exactly at a time like this that the principles you value -- the principles America stands for -- is the most important.” 

The hand pats Steve, once.

“Just remember to be you. No matter what happens.” 

Steve nods -- just barely. A shift of his cheek against the pillow. 

“Good man,” says Coulson, softly.

Steve believes him.


End file.
